FLOOR WAX PASTE - WAX PASTE

Floor Wax Paste

a preparation containing wax and used to polish and preserve the finish of floors

paste

Coat with paste

any mixture of a soft and malleable consistency

Insert (text) into a document

Fasten or stick (something) onto something with paste

a hard, brilliant lead glass that is used in making artificial jewelry

glue: join or attach with or as if with glue; "paste the sign on the wall"; "cut and paste the sentence in the text"

floor wax paste - BRIWAX CENTRAL

BRIWAX CENTRAL BR-1-DB PASTE WAX 1LB - DARK BROWN

Briwax is a solvent based blend of beeswax and carnauba wax. Briwax has long been recognized by furniture restoration professionals as a premiere, multi-purpose furniture wax. It produces a lustrous patina, not a glossy surface shine. It is suitable for use as a finish on new wood or stripped furniture, a reconditioner for old or damaged finishes, a furniture wax for fine furniture and antiques or an antiquing agent where the desire is to "age" a newly painted carving or project. Tinted waxes can be lightened or removed with the clear wax. 16 oz.

81% (9) The Little Street

"Time, halted for this instant and therefore in a sense for eternity, seems to be his essential subject. Its wear and tear is visible in the bricks and mortar, the fabric of fact that bluntly underpins our tenuous and temporary hold with its many unanswerable questions, such as 'What are we doing here?' And yet according to some art historians the picture is also about the ideals of domestic virtue: the grape-vine symbolizes love and marital fidelity. Psalm 128 says: 'Thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine by the sides of thine house.' Catharina was often 'full and sweet' as the Dutch described the state of pregnancy. And Vermeer allows for this sense of development in his painting. Unlike de Hooch, who freezes his figures for once and for all, he gives us the feeling that at any moment the woman in the doorway will put her sewing or embroidery away and call to the children; time for some food. And the servant will come in from the passageway and help in the kitchen." Vermeer: A View of Delft, Anthony Bailey, 2001 by Anthony Bailey Vermeer: A View of Delft, 2001, pp. 100-103 Het Straatje -'The Little Street' - is in fact a little painting of a small section of street. There is nothing to indicate how wide the street is, though we get the impression that the painter's view (which is our view) is from a house apposite, from an upstairs room, at no great distance. Topographical experts and local historians in Delft have spent much time trying to pin down where this was. The Oude Langendijk, the Nieuwe Langendijk, the Trompetstraat, the Spieringstraat, Achterom, the Vlamingstraat, and the Voldersgracht are among the numerous streets put forward for the honour. The Voldersgracht has been a consistent candidate, for the back of Mechelen overlooked the little canal of the Voldersgracht and its narrow carriageway, on to which faced the Old Men's Home and - a few doors further east - the Flying Fox inn. In a few years the Old Men's Home was going to be partly rebuilt, with its chapel converted in 1661 into the hall of the St. Luke's Guild; drawings of the hall show a small house and archway similar to the part of the left-hand house and archway depicted in The Little Street. But the house on the right in that picture has its gable-end facing the street, while the building which housed the chapel of the Old Men's Home stood side-on to the street. The two arched outside doorways in the painting, one with a closed door, the other with door open revealing a brick-paved passage in which a servant-woman is leaning aver a barrel used as a washtub or cistern, and waste water runs towards us along a gulley form the heart of the picture. What is behind the dark closed door? Its shut state, the openness and light of its companion, bring to mind those weather-predicting devices styled as miniature cottages out of which figures swing to declare that it is going to be fine or rainy. There must have been many hundred such passageways in Delft then. However, an adjacent pair, with twin gates like those in the picture, is now not to be found in any of the favoured streets. But given the artist's close relationship with van Ruijven, it seems a possibility that the house on the right belonged to that gentleman. The Little Street was painted around the time Vermeer and his wife borrowed 200 guilders from van Ruijven. The house on the right has signs of a good deal of hasty repainting and patching of cracks, as if it was shaken severely by the Thunderclap, and we know that van Ruijven owned a house on the east side of the Voorstraat that was damaged in the explosion. The picture was in his collection. For all that, it also seems probable that here, as in many other paintings, Vermeer picked and mixed his details. He took some elements of reality and put them together in an 'invented' scene; he may have observed some details and remembered or imagined others. When we look closely at it, the main house in The Little Street is a strange mish-mash of architectural features, to which an air of plausibility is given by the wonderful painting of brick, wood, and glass, of the trees and sky, and of the figures of the two women and two children. The front doorway, in which one of the women sits sewing, is not quite in the centre of the facade, as might be expected, but is offset to the left. Did Vermeer piece it there to accommodate the swung-open shutter on the right with its vivid rectangle of red? And what about its partners, the closed green shutters on the left of the doorway? The right-hand one of those would be impossible to open, at least with abandon, all the way, without partly obstructing the front doorway. A further impracticality in terms of sound building practice is to be seen in the position of this left-hand ground-floor window. It immediately abuts the side wall of the house. The shallow arch of bricks above its wooden lintel presses against the very edge of this wall, and few Dutch builders would have risk

a short storyish thing. please don't copy and paste this: Somewhere, there is a house whose roof is alight with fireflies. Each insect pulses simultaneously, their tails like little flames, strings of forgotten Christmas lights engulfing every weathered tile. This is a place as similar to rural America as a place that is not America could possibly be. The grass hasn’t been cut in a decade, and twists up the porch in tendrils, like dancers’ legs. Cicadas shed their old skins and thread the air with their music; each stitch of wind sticks to passerby’s throats and fills them with the taste of newness, something just on the threshold of being reached and ineffable except for the taste of raw honey it leaves on their tongues as they turn the corner and the house disappears out of sight. There are nettles hidden in this yard, braided to the undergrowth and connected to the ground with a network of pincers. The nettles only claimed their place after the yard became wild; perhaps the threat of being punctured by their thorns has kept the owners of the house from mowing the grass. Inevitably, this becomes a cycle, as the grass becomes longer, the nettles become more confident in their tangled hiding places, reaching out their spiked tendrils like a sleeper in bed who is looking for a cool place to lie on the sweat-stained sheets. We all look like starfishes sleeping, when we are truly in that black hole where there are no dreams and the air we breathe within that dream-that-is-not-a-dream is that absent gray snuff that rises off an extinguished candle. Mold binds the seam of each wall together, forming the rooms and corridors and closets and gluing them into one house, rooms stacked straight above the other like a kingdom of paper cards. Sometimes, in heat waves, the floors look like they’re wobbling, succumbing to the breathless climate and melting like wax. But these are only the shimmers in the air that everyone has seen at one point, usually at barbecues when charcoal is burning. On the top floor, the ceiling is so slanted that gangly teenagers searching for refuge have to bend at nearly perpendicular angles to avoid hitting their heads. They sit in circles, breathing violet-colored smoke from a pipe that they pass around; they numb themselves to their imminent deaths as children. They ignore the fact that soon they will be reborn as adults and they will not even stop to remember the baby, child, or teenager that once stood in their place. By the time we reach adulthood, we are made up of entirely different cells than the ones that we had at birth. Our dreams, along with our cells, have been completely replaced, and there is no reason to continue the ruse that we are still the same person we were ten years ago. Each second, someone dies and an older someone takes our place, one who looks exactly the same except for a broken blood vessel in their eye which has been brought on by tiredness. Right before they change forever, the teenagers in the attic are suddenly enlightened; they come to know all of this as they breathe out a puff of their violet-stained air. Every morning, the Twilight children are still asleep, huddled behind cardboard boxes that have been left to rot in a room that no one cares about. They are asleep and so they never see that the single attic window is opaque and white, painted with mist that has been breathed onto the glass by stillborn babies at a time where everyone, even the cicada, are asleep. The attic is a place for things that don’t quite have a place. It is a room that is quite beautiful at 3:45 in the morning, when the light is gold and untouched by dust-motes. But half of the stuff in dust-motes is faerie dust that has seeped through the sacks tied around the willowy waists of a nymph. This is a fact that seems too cliched and idyllic to be true, but is nonetheless as sure as the moon having empty seas called maria. In fact, there is a man looking through his telescope on the porch, and the great metal tube sends his eyes light-years into the universe. His pupils are thrust open by starlight, he sees the dust-filled oceans in perfect illumination. There is a house at the bottom of one, at latitude twenty-eight and longitude seventeen. The roof is covered with fireflies that look like Christmas lights, and he thinks that perhaps it is the house of a martian.